Len Gilbert - The Furred Reich

Another voice entered the dark bunker. The square-jawed man was wearing an officer’s uniform. The right armband read: Adolf Hitler. It was the Leibstandarte, the Fuehrer’s elite SS bodyguard turned combat unit.

“No,” Hans muttered.

Not only was he back in this world, but he was stuck with the most fanatical division of them all. Things were not looking good.

“Let me speak to him privately for a moment, Doctor Bruestle.”

The surgeon turned and marched back out to the snow.

“Hepner is your name?”

“Yes,” Hans said mechanically.

“I am SS-Sturmbannfuehrer Josef Diefanthal. You have some explaining to do, Gefreiter.”

Hans lay there in silence.

“We found you in the snow. But we’d like to know how a member of the Grossdeutschland wound up in Bavaria. Last we heard, your division was stationed in Memel.”

“Um.”

This SS officer would not likely be amused if Hans told him about the Furries.

“Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, I’d um, this sounds strange but, I was last in Belgorod. Under attack. I was about to die. It was really my time. Then, ah, I was in a dreamlike state, for a long time, and I awoke here.”

Telling the truth was the best way to do this. After all, desertion was a hanging crime.

“…I see. That’s interesting. And did you see a white light?”

“Yeah, ah, Jawhohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer.”

“Interesting. Anyway, let me explain the situation. The war is over. Americans are occupying this part of Germany. We are a resistance cell. The leadership of our division, as well as several combat groups, was sentenced to execution.”

So James wasn’t lying, it seemed.

“You aren’t required to stay with us. We only ask that you not divulge our location. However, it is my understanding that the Americans are killing everyone who has an armband, Wehrmacht or SS.”

Hans looked down at the ‘Grossdeutschland’ band resting on his right arm. He hadn’t thought much about the band since he got it, but so soon after waking up, he was forced to make a decision. He felt the weight of his old life crushing him again. If Sarah and all the rest were just a dream, his feelings definitely weren’t. But here it was. He was back from his dream, and now even his comrades were either dead or prisoners. Hans didn’t want to be here. The Leibstandarte were heroes. He was a nobody.

“I… do you mind, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer? I’m a little overwhelmed. I’d like to stay for awhile and think about this.”

Diefanthal came a little closer and glared at him. “I’d prefer uncommitted people like you to run off to the Americans, and out of our sight…”

Hans met the man’s cold eyes and looked back into them.

“Come on,” Diefanthal broke the silence. “The commander has assigned you to a scratch unit for the time being, nevertheless.”

The tall captain slung open the door and led Hans through a set of thin trenches. All along the way, the fanatical eyes of the SS looked distrustfully at him.

“Stillgestanden!”

Diefanthal barked, and three haggard men shot up to attention. One wore a wrinkled Luftwaffe uniform, another was an older man wearing red stripes on his pants, probably a general. The third wore a uniform that looked to be American. He was tall and had jet black hair.

“Kompanie, I introduce our newest Kamerad, Gefreiter Hans Hepner of the Grossdeutschland! Herr Hepner, this is Wilhelm Postal, a General-lieutenant from the 320 division. The man in the middle is Heinz Mertens, a mechanic in the Luftwaffe.”

Mertens tried to give a friendly smile, Postal stared forward and ignored the three of them.

“The third man here is an American prisoner. Texas Ve-v-Veelis. Do not speak to Herr Wheelis unless authorized.”

“YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH!”

A call came out from behind the nearby trench corner and a rock-faced SS-man emerged grinning right at Hans. The man grabbed Hans by the hand and shook vigorously.

“WHAT’S THE MATTER? GESTAPO HAVE YOU PUSHING TOO MANY PENCILS?”

“Gustav! Shut up,” Diefenthal shouted.

“I’M-JUST-DOING-MY-JOB,” Gustav shot back.

“This is Gustav,” Diefanthal’s voice turned patient.

“He survived one hour of Stalin’s Organs while in a crater somewhere near Smolensk. He hasn’t been the same ever since. Gustav will also be in your unit. You will continue to dig a bunker for the officers! And then one for yourselves. Venison will be provided this evening at 18:15. Heil Hitler!”

The Sturmbannfuehrer spun around and walked off toward the the bare trees and bleak sunset.

“Wait… Wait… A little closer,” Kasha muttered, his stomach flat against the ground.

The shrill scream of Master Sepp’s whistle interrupted his count. Kasha haphazardly threw the rope and missed the target.

“Nien, nien, nien!” The Master shouted. “You must throw the lasso before the whistle. You must pull down the raiders’ mount, by the neck. Too early and you miss. Too late? And your comrades will be torn to pieces. Now, again!”

Kasha and one other recruit, whose name he didn’t know, picked up their lassos and returned to their positions. Sepp once again led in a feral horse by the snout, while other wolves took part in a mock fracas, clashing their spears and hollering. Kasha’s heart beat harder and harder until he threw the lasso and it curled around the horse’s neck. Just at that moment Vahn, who Kasha recognized as one of the younger recruits, sprung up from his spot, spear in hand, and leaped at the horse.

“Yes, very good Vahn,” Master Sepp had a way of speaking encouragingly, and he was doing so now. “With this you’ll be able to cut down those mounted raiders. And good job throwers. Overall you’ve each done well. Now, you may return to your bunker for provisions.”

Just as Kasha turned toward the bunker, Master Sepp’s voice rang out again.

“Except for you, Herr Kasha. I’ve special plans for you today.”

Kasha felt his heart sink. Was Master Sepp displeased with him? Would he be going to the ‘dog house’ punishment hut? He prayed that wasn’t it. Sepp smiled at him and explained the assignment.

“You are to be part of my security detachment, Herr Kasha. Today we set out east for the edge of the forest. An envoy from the ‘Khanate’ wishes to negotiate, and I intend to hear his offer.”

The news was a big relief. Not only because Kasha wouldn’t be going to the punishment hut, but also because this might mean a return to life as normal.

Their convoy consisted of three tamed, feral horses which were just one handful of the many things which the Lightning Rune Tribe had acquired over the last two moons.

By horseback, the journey through the forests would take four days. All along the way they saw gatherings and villages in disrepair, and most of the inhabitants had obviously departed. The damp blue darkness of the forest reassured Kasha. Even though he was from the Goldgrass Lands, Kasha knew that these forests protected the wolves from the full wrath of the Greenskins.

In fact, since their attack began, a good bit of the Great Forests had since been won back by the Lightning Rune Tribe, but the last vestiges of Khanate power in the forest had to be traversed. The few monsters they encountered seemed aware of the envoy, and some of the Grimeskins even waved and offered cooked meat of various kinds. These Grimeskins seemed eager to set aside their hostility, even when the truce was on such short notice. Kasha didn’t know whether to return the gesture to a Grimeskin who waved to him. Then he remembered what they did to his hometown, and the anger returned. Kasha didn’t wave back.

As the party progressed eastward and around the swamps, more and more sunlight seeped in and warmed the ground. The temple would soon be in their view, as would the edge of the forest. A cold gust of wind greeted them as soon as they stepped out of the treeline.